


A Hunter in Ussingen

by Minoukatze



Category: Vermintide, Warhammer Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 09:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minoukatze/pseuds/Minoukatze
Summary: Based on dialogue in the Empire in Flames mission. A young woman stands accused of a serious crime, and a Witch Hunter arrives to pass judgment.





	A Hunter in Ussingen

The knock at the door of Jutta’s hovel jolted her to attention. She’d been dozing, having spent the past two weeks sleeping fitfully upon a woven mat upon the floor. There was but a single candle upon a rickety table, the shack’s only furniture. It had been the best Elias could do. He had but a few silver, and Jutta, now, none at all. Mother wanted naught to do with her, and she’d no coin for the inn (not that she would stay someplace so public), so this dusty place would have to suffice.

Elias said that he was going to raise the money to get them to Bogenhafen. He was a journeyman farrier now and was confident that he could find decent work there. Jutta just needed to hide. Just for a few weeks. Just long enough for them to escape.

The rap at the door repeated. Jutta shrank into the corner for a moment, clutching her rounded belly, then rose. One could see daylight through the slats of the door. If anyone craved entrance, it would not be a difficult achievement. Resigned, Jutta opened the door a crack to peer at the visitor, hoping that, perhaps, Mother had forgiven her transgression and had come to beckon her home.

Instead, she found the creature of her nightmares looming on the other side. The instrument of her demise had arrived, and the Baron had tracked her down at last. She should have known that she could not have hidden for long. Had there been an illustration of the quintessential witch hunter in one of Baron Francke’s storybooks, this gaunt and imposing man would have been the very picture. He was unusually tall to begin with, his watchtower hat only enhancing the effect and casting his grim face in shadow. That face was all edges and hollows, a pair of black eyes pinning her where she stood. This was it. Jutta could all but feel the flames licking her feet. Her doom had come to call.

Days of foreboding and fear having dulled her shock, Jutta depressedly opened the door wide and welcomed the man inside. “So here you are, then.”

“You are unsurprised,” the hunter replied, his voice stiletto-sharp and almost musical.

Jutta shrugged. “I was threatened. I s'pose it was only a matter of time before the Baron followed through. I 'pologize for the lack of chairs or food. I confess I was not planning on entertaining here.”

“You are in hiding,” the man observed.

“That’s wha' happens when a powerful man would have your life,” Jutta replied. “What was I to do?”

“And what would prompt this course of action?” the hunter inquired, his voice steady and maddeningly calm.

“Does it matter?” Jutta mumbled. “If I'm only to end upon the pyre, why bother with questions?”

“This is an investigation.” The man began to pace, one arm folded behind his back, the top of his hat brushing the cobwebs from the ceiling. “If there is indeed witchcraft at work, I would know the depth of the treachery. I would root out every scrap, to eradicate the treachery in full.”

Jutta sighed. “Not much for me to say, and nothin’ that you’ll believe, so you may as well get this over with. I was a housemaid at the big manor, an' I carried on with the Baron. When his Lady wife found out about the whole mess, and worse, that he’d gotten me with child before her, she would have him get rid of me. Said the baby was a threat to the line. Sir was all done with me then and wanted out of the doghouse, so he says I bewitched him.” Jutta snorted. “T’was him what done the bewitchin’, with his ‘here, girl, try this brandy’ and ‘here, girl, come sit upon my lap’ and ‘here, girl…’” Jutta blinked back furious tears, despair allowing her to meet the hunter’s penetrating stare evenly. “There’s no saying ‘no,’ y’see, not to the Baron, not if you don' want a clout to the chin and a boot to the streets, though since I’m confessin’, here, I’ll say I woulda done it anyway. He was charmin’ and gave me nice things and I was stupid. An’ I was doubly stupid to refuse to deny the babe was his work. Was hopin’ for a little coin to go on, as me mum and dad cut me off after my belly started showin,’ but didn’t think he’d be so craven as to call the Order on me. So there it is. My grand confession. Surely you’ll be puttin’ the screws to me for more, but you’ll be gettin’ no better than that.”

“Hmm…” The hunter tapped his chin. “So you’ve no clue as to the sigil and spell buried outside of this hovel?”

Jutta’s face scrunched in confusion. “Wha’? Sir, I ain’ been outside the place but for two weeks. Barely peek out to empty the pot, even.”

The hunter produced a handful of dirt-smudged papers and drawings. “So you state that these are not yours?”

Jutta shook her head. “Sir, I can’ read! Why would a ladymaid know about letters?”

“Jutta, I’ve got- NO!” Elias dropped his sack of supplies upon seeing the hunter. “SHE’S INNOCENT. SHE AIN’ NO WITCH! YOU’LL HA’ TO GO THROUGH ME…”

“ELIAS, NO!” Jutta cried.

Unofficial hunters had passed through Ussingen from time to time to dispense the Baron’s justice. They’d never seemed more than puffed-up mountebanks to Jutta. This one, though… Jutta had heard tales of witch hunters who vanquished daemons, slayed necromancers. With his gleaming rapier and unconcerned mien, _this_ man seemed like the real deal. Elias would be dead seven times before he hit the ground. Jutta begged him to stay his hand.

The hunter turned smoothly to Elias, unperturbed. “You do realize that threatening a Templar is a capital offense.”

Elias blanched but stood his ground, fists clenched to his sides, shoulders squared. “I…I… don’ mean to threaten, but she’s innocent! The Baron’s lyin’ through his teeth! And…and I’ll stand up for Jutta no matter what!”

“Elias, no! Sir, he’s just being kind to me. He’s got nothing to do with any of this.” Jutta fell to her knees, hands clasped in supplication. “Please…”

“And abetting a witch will strap you next to her on the pyre,” the hunter continued. “You’ve no fear of such a fate?”

Elias swallowed heavily. “’Course I do, Sir. But I’d still face it. Sigmar would know me for one o’ his own, even if I do burn.”

The hunter regarded Elias for a moment, dark eyebrow quirked. From his leather coat, he removed a sheet of parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink. He took them over to the table, balanced the surface with one hand, and quickly scripted a message with the other. He handed Jutta the note, then stepped back, arms folded behind him.

“Girl,” the hunter said. “If you read me this message, I will declare this young man free of all charges, and you both can leave right at this moment.”

Jutta stared at the scrawl, trying not to scream in frustration and despair. She turned the paper this way and that, unable to make any sense of it. Even if it weren’t handwriting, Jutta still wouldn’t be able to deliver, and now Elias was condemned as well. She burst into tears, handing it back to the hunter.

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Why would you mock me so, Sir? I can’t read. I’m so sorry, Elias! I’m so sorry…”

The hunter stowed the note and writing implements back into his coat and turned to leave. “I will return with my verdict. Do not try to flee, it will be the worse for you both. Good day.”

***

The witch hunter stalked back to the marketplace, furious. Victor Saltzpyre’s time was extremely valuable, and he did not appreciate it having been wasted. He was a man of action, after all, and his particular set of skills was essential to keeping the citizens of the Empire sleeping soundly in their beds, their gormless heads vouchsafed from the creeping influence of Chaos. It was now perfectly obvious that his assignment was based upon lies, precious time which could have been spent routing actual cultists or daemonspawn instead spent harrowing a destitute pregnant waif and her lovestruck suitor. One week transit out of his way to Helmgart, one more to get back on course. It was utterly shameful, and his superior would hear all about this debacle. Victor could have just cut his losses right then and there, but the shoddiness and spite of the whole operation outraged his every sensibility. There would be retribution. Victor would see to it.

The Ussingen market bustled with activity. Victor paused a moment for a quick meat pie when he spotted a familiar raggedy shamble of a man. Victor quickly devoured the pie and began to tail the tramp.

Victor had first spied the ragged man when he was en route to Jutta Jurgens’ hideaway hovel. Intrigued by the man’s furtive demeanor, Victor had followed him at a distance, surprised to find that they shared the very same destination. Victor had watched as the derelict scrawled something in chalk upon the ramshackle wall, buried a small bag of items next to it, and then scampered away into the alleyway. As soon as the man was out of sight, Victor had inspected the scene. The “sigil” upon the wall was the approximation of what a person who’d never encountered Slaaneshi script would imagine a cultist would draw. Victor had dug up the bag to find a handful of papers, gibberish spells and more pitiful sketches inside. The hunter was clearly meant to find it, the “sigil” bright and garish against the filthy, greying wall. Even had he not seen the tramp planting the evidence, Victor would have seen through the lazy, pathetic farce immediately. It was insulting to a man of his prodigious skill.

Beyond that, a Slaan cultist would have exuded an aura of hedonism, tried to seduce him or created an atmosphere of indulgence and debauchery. The dour, stringy-haired creature who had greeted him was none of those; her despondent acceptance of her fate more proof of the wrongs levied against her. He had already been fairly confident of her innocence, but his last test solidified his surety. Victor fingered the note he had hastily written in her shack.

_Baron Justus Francke is a wet fart._

Any literate person, especially a woman who had been harrowed by this person, would have at least cracked a smile. Jutta had only shown chagrin and despair at her inability to read the note and, thus, ensure her beau’s safety. Not that Victor was going to punish the lad for his cheek, anyway. Rather, he’d been quite impressed by Elias’ bravery and zeal. Had Elias not been too old, or so devoted to the girl, Victor would have recommended that the lad look into apprenticing for the Order. However, the situation as it was, the boy was better off looking after his imperiled sweetheart.

Victor followed the derelict as he shambled into an alleyway, and when the man paused to piss upon one of the stone walls Victor took his chance to strike.

His dagger at the tramp’s throat, Victor hissed in his ear. “We have much to discuss. Tidy yourself and come with me.”

***

A butler ushered Victor into the Francke family manor, their footsteps echoing in the vaulted marble and gold atrium. Baroness Francke regarded the pair imperiously from the top of lushly carpeted staircase, bejeweled hand resting upon the small swell of a velvet-clad belly, a satisfied smile curving her thin lips. Baron Justus Francke emerged from one of the chambers to welcome Victor. The Baron led Victor into his lavish parlor, an elderly maid pouring a fine brandy into two glasses.

“I believe my investigation is at an end,” Victor stated, taking a seat upon a poufy brocade-covered settee.

“You work quickly!” The Baron exclaimed. “You had been well-recommended, but I had no idea! I take it you have gathered ample evidence for a conviction?”

Baron Francke took a deep draught of his brandy while Victor left his own untouched. Victor regarded the man, handsome and charming, with a trim chestnut beard and merry green eyes. It was not difficult to see why an impressionable maid would yield so easily to such a personage. Baron Francke exuded the easy confidence of a man unused to adversity or refusal.

“Oh yes,” Victor replied, unable to keep a wicked smile from curving his lips. “More than enough.”

“Grim and sad business, this.” Francke leaned back in his chair, glass in hand. “I suppose that the most desperate and craven would resort to such despicable tactics.”

“Indeed,” Victor replied. “And I think that you will agree that drastic action is essential.”

“Most definitely.” Francke took another sip. “So, when will the proceedings occur? My beloved wife wishes to see justice exacted.”

“That depends on you,” Victor replied. “You see, there is a choice to be made.”

“A choice?”

“A choice.” Victor drew the signed confession from his coat and smoothly slid it across the table. “Here. Signed evidence of collusion to frame an innocent girl for witchcraft. Signed and sealed before a licensed scribe in treble, one copy sent by messenger pigeon, one by mail coach, and this one upon my own person. The pigeon is probably halfway to Altdorf by now. Your man Finzel was very forthcoming when I questioned him. A simple X next to his name would have been sufficient, but fortunately he had the wherewithal to write his name.”

The color drained from Francke’s face. He tossed back the rest of the brandy and slammed the tumbler down upon the table so hard that both cracked.

“What the hell are you going on about?” Francke hissed.

“You know very well,” Victor returned, rising from his seat to tower over the Baron. “The Order of the Silver Hammer is no one’s wet work service, and we will not be used as such. Your wretched scheme was so shoddily constructed that it collapsed upon first glance. How _dare_ you? And for a matter so seamy and petty? It is disgraceful beyond words!”

“This can be remedied.” Francke’s jaw clenched, his hands clamped upon his silken knees. “These issues can always be remedied. I am a very wealthy man, Saltzpyre, and the girl…she is of no importance. How much would it take to…”

“To save your life?” Victor interrupted with a nasty grin. “I assume that is what you were to say, as bribing an Empire official is an arrestable offence. Yes, there we may make a deal. I am not incapable of mercy, Baron Francke, and the Church of Sigmar may yet benefit from your transgression…”

Victor wrote a figure upon the back of the confession. Francke blanched anew.

“You cannot be serious.” The Baron whimpered. “Why that is…”

“Exactly half of your fortune.” Victor glared at the cowering man. “In case you have not yet noticed, I am very good at my job. Half of your fortune, or you take the girl’s place upon the pyre. The crowd likes a spectacle, no matter who is on the block. You are to be a father soon enough, are you not? How would your wife, your… _official_ …child, fare without your influence? Personally, I believe they’d be just fine, but…”

Francke clutched his head in his hands, rocking against the chair. “Fine. Fine, let us get this over with.”

***

“There. I believe that should be sufficient compensation.”

Victor Saltzpyre dropped the heavy sack of coin into the girl’s trembling hand. She and Elias stared at it, incredulous, peering inside after a moment. Jutta nearly dropped the bag upon the discovery of gold coin within.

She goggled at him, her mouth dropping open. “Sir, are you sure?”

“You should probably keep it hidden,” Victor advised. “And use it to depart this place as soon as possible. I have the feeling that a creature as spiteful as the Baron will not take this blow gracefully.”

Jutta nodded vigorously, stowing the sack in her cloak. “Me’n Elias were to set off for Bogenhafen on the morning carriage…”

“No.” Victor replied flatly. “Spend the extra coin and take your firebrand swain on the evening mail coach tonight. The road to Osburg is well-patrolled, and you should be fine. I, myself, am away to Helmgart for _actual_ business, and, thus, cannot assure your safety once I depart.”

“Right.” Jutta nodded again. “Right. Sir…” The young woman swallowed heavily. “How can I possibly thank you?”

“Live righteously.” Victor called to the pair, turning on his heel, pack upon his back, making for the gate. “Sigmar’s blessings upon you.”


End file.
